


The Potion

by SeaofRhye



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, in which Gwen and Lancelot got together and Arthur stayed single, magic heirs cause why not, spoilers for S1-4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-01 03:45:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaofRhye/pseuds/SeaofRhye
Summary: In which Arthur didn't marry Gwen and Merlin provides an alternate solution to the problem of producing an heir.





	1. Part 1

The last thing he remembers is black spots in front of his eyes as he lifts an arrow to his bowstring, and now all he can see is Merlin’s angry face and his chamber ceiling above him.

“You fainted!” Merlin says, as if Arthur had done it just to plague him. “Gaius has told you a hundred times--”

“Merlin,” Arthur groans. “Will you get me a cup of water?”

Merlin moves out of sight for a moment, and reappears with a cup that Arthur pointedly drinks every drop of.

“I was training,” Arthur says, handing the cup back. “I forgot to take a flask with me. But I’m all right now, aren’t I?”

Merlin is still scowling at him. “You need to be careful. You can’t keep forgetting and fainting every time. You could’ve injured yourself.”

Arthur scoffs, sitting up. “I’m--” The room dips alarmingly, and he slowly settles back against the pillows until it stops. “Fine.”

“I saw that,” Merlin persists. “You’re staying in bed until I say you can get up.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Who is King around here?” 

“Who’s carrying the only heir?” Merlin shoots back. He points at Arthur’s stomach, which still looks normal. “That should be reason enough for you.”

Arthur looks away. He can’t find the words to explain to Merlin, or to Gaius, that it simply doesn’t feel real yet. Yes, he’s felt odd on occasion, needs more sleep, and can no longer bear the smell or even sight of venison, but it’s no worse than when he’s been ill before. That’s all this feels like, an illness.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says after a moment, probably mistaking Arthur’s silence for penitence.

“I forgive you,” Arthur replies, ever gracious. “But you can’t keep treating me like a sick child just because of…” He gestures vaguely at his stomach.

Merlin sighs. “It’s only because you don’t seem to want to take any advice from me or Gaius.”

Arthur folds his arms, feeling slightly defensive. “The two of you give an alarming amount of advice. I can’t possibly remember it all.”

“Drink water and don’t stand out in the sun for hours isn’t hard to remember,” Merlin counters.

Arthur pulls a pillow over his face. “Go away.”

“Do you promise to at least drink more water?”

Arthur moves the pillow enough to scowl at Merlin. “Yes.”

 

***

He runs into his chambers with Merlin in hot pursuit, asking him what’s wrong.

“It’s…” Arthur’s so terrified he can’t even speak. He just keeps a hand on his stomach, and Merlin looks confused.

“Is it pain? Are you in pain?”

Arthur shakes his head. 

“All right. But you’re feeling something unusual?”

“Yes!” Good, he can talk again. “It’s like flutters or something. I don’t know how to describe it, but it just started during the council meeting. Is it normal?”

Merlin breaks into a huge smile. “Of course it is. That’s quickening.”

Arthur blinks. “What?”

Merlin steps closer and--with a hesitant nod from Arthur--puts his hand lightly on Arthur’s stomach. “The baby’s moving. That’s what that feeling is.”

Oh. It’s….unsettling. Arthur brushes Merlin’s hand away and takes a few aimless steps toward the door.

“Are you going back to the meeting?” Merlin asks. Arthur nods vaguely. Maybe matters of state will distract him from all these...sensations. 

***  
Despite doing his best to focus on the affairs of Camelot, Arthur still finds himself preoccupied over dinner. The...movements...have come and gone all day, and each time he finds it unpleasant. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? And will it be like this all the time until the birth happens?

Merlin glances at him while tidying up. “Something wrong?”

Arthur puts his spoon down and sighs, cupping his stomach. “I don’t like how this feels. It’s...odd. I can’t get used to it.”

Merlin smiles. “It’s only been one day.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Merlin, you don’t know what this is like. Admit it.”

Merlin shrugs. “All right, I don’t. I’m just trying to help.”

Arthur scoffs, picking up his spoon again. Odd feelings or not, he’s definitely hungry. 

“You could help,” he says around a mouthful of stew, “if you could do this yourself. In fact, maybe you should’ve drunk the potion instead of me. Why didn’t you?”

As soon as it’s out, he realizes how not like a joke that sounds. Merlin stops what he’s doing and seems to actually consider Arthur’s question.

“No,” Arthur says when he sees Merlin open his mouth to respond. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. You had your reasons.”

“I did.” Merlin sounds unusually somber, but before Arthur can ask what he meant, he excuses himself to take Arthur’s clothes to be laundered. 

I hurt his feelings, Arthur realizes, and feels an inordinate amount of guilt wash over him. Merlin is his truest, bravest friend, and he helped him secure the royal line through magic. It’s thanks to him that Arthur’s son even exists. How could he be so--

He stops, goblet midway to his mouth. Son. That’s the first time he’s thought of it that way. 

***

As soon as Merlin returns that night, Arthur tries to lighten the atmosphere between them.

“I think it’s a boy,” he says once he’s settled in bed, and Merlin pauses in building up the fire to look surprised.

“Really? How can you tell?”

Arthur shrugs, resting one hand on his stomach. “I just had a thought earlier.”

“Oh, dear,” Merlin says in a mock-serious tone. “Not too much of that, now. You know how much energy it takes.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur tucks himself in further under the bedclothes and shuts his eyes, listening as Merlin stokes the fire before he leaves.

“Arthur?”

“Mm?”

“There is a reason why I didn’t take the potion.”

Arthur levies himself up on one elbow. “It hardly matters now, Merlin.”

“No, I want to explain,” Merlin insists. “I wanted to take it. I really did.”

Arthur blinks. 

“But there wouldn’t have been a way to prove it was the rightful heir of Camelot if...if I was the one carrying it. No one would believe me.”

“I would’ve vouched for you.”

Merlin smiles. “I know. This way, though, no one can deny that it’s the true heir.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Either I’m dreaming or you’re actually making sense.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Sleep well, my lord.”

 

***

“This isn’t going to go on much longer, is it?”

Merlin hands him another shirt--the last four haven’t managed to fit past his belly, but maybe this one will--and says nothing. 

“Merlin,” Arthur warns him, recognizing the look on his face. “Answer me.”

“Er,” Merlin says, scratching the back of his head. “Well, you still have three more months at least, and the baby is going to grow quite a bit, so--”

Arthur tries to hide his dismay by tugging the shirt rather violently down over himself.

“You mean to tell me,” he grunts, “that this isn’t the biggest I’m going to get?”

A seam rips, as if in answer, and Arthur gives up. 

“Find a seamstress and have all of these taken out,” he says, mustering all of his self-control not to burst into tears. 

“Yes, my lord.” Merlin gathers up the discarded shirts. “And will you be wanting your trousers taken out as well?”

Arthur gives him his deadliest glare. “Yes. And if you breathe a word…”

“You’ll throw me in the dungeons to rot,” Merlin finishes easily. “Understood.”

***

Arthur spends the rest of the day doing as much as he can from the privacy of his chambers. He does have an excuse--it’s not as if he can walk around the castle without properly-fitting clothes. Merlin’s assured him that he’ll have brand new clothes in a few days, but then what? He’s going to look ridiculous no matter how many times he gets new clothes made, and what’s the alternative--wearing robes, like Gaius? He’s not an old man, after all.

He hates this. He hates not having any control over his own body anymore, and no way to make any of it more than just manageable. He’s stuck like this, looking more like a bloated toad every day, and there’s nothing--

His son moves suddenly, and it jolts him out of his thoughts for a moment. He smiles in spite of himself. At least this isn’t terrible. He’s almost gotten used to feeling his son moving around, stronger every day, it seems. That’s good. All he wants---the only thing he wants---is a healthy child. That’s all that matters. 

And if that means that he has to wear robes….well, so be it. As long as he doesn’t look like an old man in them.

***  
“Forty-eight...no, forty-nine bolts of cloth,” Merlin says with some amazement. He jots the number down on the inventory scroll and shakes his head, “How many clothes does one baby need?”

“He’s a prince, Merlin,” Arthur reminds him patiently. “He deserves the best. And besides, the more kingdoms that send gifts, the more I know they accept this new prince as their future king. It’s a sign of solidarity as well as generosity.”

Merlin shrugs. “Well, I hope you don’t expect me to sew all this into clothes.”

Arthur laughs. “You, sew? You can barely lace your own boots.”

Merlin ignores him and focuses on the chest of gifts that arrived yesterday. 

“Are these toys?” he says incredulously, picking up one of the the jewel-encrusted items carefully packed inside. “What can a baby do with something like this?”

Arthur takes the bauble away from him. “It’s not a toy, Merlin, it’s a token of goodwill. Of course I’m not going to let him play with these. They can be...keepsakes, of a sort. Put them downstairs when you’re done taking inventory.”

Merlin makes several comments about not understanding any of this, which doesn’t surprise Arthur at all. He’s trying to hide his own apprehension at how receiving all these gifts makes the birth seem that much more imminent. 

What if I don’t live to see him grow up? He thinks for the thousandth time. What if all of this happens without me? I grew up without a mother, but at least I had Father.

“Arthur?”

He blinks, realizing Merlin’s probably been talking to him this entire time without him hearing a word. 

“What?” 

Merlin looks concerned. “You seem troubled.”

Arthur fiddles with the bauble. “I’m not. I was just...thinking about how much still needs to be done.”


	2. Part 2

Of all the worst times for this to happen, Arthur thinks as he grips the pommel of his saddle so tight he’s afraid it’ll snap right off, it has to be now.

They’re miles from Camelot. It’s been steadily snowing since they started the journey back. And he’s been having horrible tightening sensations across his belly for an hour, hoping that each one is the last. But they don’t seem to be going away, and surely that can only mean one thing.

“Merlin,” he says between gritted teeth, gesturing to him. Merlin moves his horse closer and sees Arthur’s face.

“Oh no,” he says, going pale. “Are you having pains?”

Arthur nods curtly, not wanting the knights to hear them. “We need to stop.”

Merlin turns his horse around and shouts to the knights that they need to make camp at once. Arthur hopes no one asks why he hasn’t given the order himself. He’s a little busy trying not to fall off his horse. Or think about how much worse this is going to get.

In a matter of minutes, his tent is set up and Merlin and Leon help him off his horse and out of the snow. Merlin throws his own cloak under Arthur and has him lie down so he can examine him better.

“Hmm,” Merlin remarks, feeling Arthur’s belly. “It doesn’t seem like he’s in the right position yet.”

Arthur stares at him. “What does that mean? Does it make any difference?”

“Quite a bit, yes,” Merlin says with an apologetic glance. “If this is real labor, we’ll have to hope that he turns himself around before things go too far.”

Arthur feels another pain coming and groans. “Isn’t there something...you...can do?”

“Not at the moment,” Merlin replies. “Remember to breathe, like Gaius taught you.”

Arthur does his best, and the pain goes away rather quickly. 

“Does your back hurt?” Merlin asks. Arthur shrugs. 

“No more than usual.”

“Any wind?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Not much, no.”

“And you can talk through the pain?”

Arthur’s beginning to get impatient. “Yes. Why?”

Merlin looks relieved. “I don’t think it’s labor. You’re having false pains.”

“False?” Arthur yelps. “They’re not false! I know what pain feels like, Merlin.”

“I meant they’re not a sign that the baby’s coming soon,” Merlin explains, helping him sit up. “If this was real labor, you’d have other symptoms you don’t have now.”

“Lovely,” Arthur sighs, tugging his undertunic back over his belly. “More to look forward to.”

Merlin glances at the tent flaps. “If you want to stay here for the night, no one will blame you. It’s snowing so hard we can’t go much further anyway.”

He has a point, and as much as Arthur would love a hot bath and his own bed, it looks like those will have to wait. At least he won’t be giving birth in a tent in the middle of the woods.

“Fine. I’ll tell the knights.”

***  
Despite his bedroll, and Merlin’ cloak (which is so warm that he suspects Merlin’s enchanted it, but doesn’t mind in the slightest) Arthur can’t sleep. Of course he’s glad that the pains have gone and won’t be returning for a while, but the same cold dread won’t leave him.

I might not survive, he thinks. Funny, he’s thought that going into every battle, but this is different. Dying in battle is noble, heroic, and only to be expected when you’ve sworn to give your life for your people. Dying in childbirth--something no one ever asked of him--isn’t the same. It’s a tragedy that plunges kingdoms into mourning and uncertainty, as well as leaving a child completely vulnerable. 

Of course he trusts his knights and Merlin and everyone else he loves to look after his son. But there’s so much he wants to teach him, so much he has to know about ruling and being a strong sovereign. There was so much he learned not to do from Uther, and he doesn’t want his son influenced into making the wrong choices.

He wants to know his son. He wants to watch him grow up, make mistakes and learn from them. He wants to see him fall in love and marry one day. He wants to be a father.

Merlin turns over in his sleep, garbling something about mushrooms. Distracted, Arthur smiles and watches him settle back down. 

If you’re lucky, one day you’ll have a friend as true as him, Arthur thinks. The baby shifts a bit, and as strange as it still feels, it’s also comforting.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

 

***

Finally, it’s the last month. Arthur secretly hopes that labor will start on the very first day, but the entire week goes by and nothing. Same with the next. Every passing day seems to taunt him.

“Sire, this is entirely normal,” Gaius assures him when he complains about wanting it all to be over. “Children come in their own time. We simply have to wait.”

“He means stop whinging,” Merlin says helpfully from behind Gaius, and Arthur waits until the old man has left the room to throw something at Merlin’s head. 

He has dreams of running through fields--unburdened, light, free, just running. Those are lovely. Then there are the dreams where he’s in pain and bleeding, and Merlin’s frantically doing every spell he can but none of them work, and the last thing Arthur hears before he wakes up in a cold sweat is the cry of an infant. 

These could be his last days of life, he realizes. And a small part of him doesn’t want the baby to come, because the longer it remains inside, the more time he has.

He throws himself into his work--passing new laws, revising ordinances, knighting the most capable recruits, and writing missives to allegiant kingdoms. He has a legacy to leave behind, and the kingdom can’t fall to ruin as soon as he’s gone. 

Even more complicated is the matter of choosing a regent. A tiny child won’t be able to rule on his own for years.

“It could be a knight,” he muses out loud one evening as he’s getting ready for bed--or rather, getting ready to lie down and try to sleep. “Leon is the oldest and we’ve known each other since we were children. He’s not royal, but that hardly matters.”

Merlin says nothing, only thumps the pillows on Arthur’s bed a bit harder than is necessary.

“Something on your mind?” Arthur asks. Merlin’s jaw is set, which means he’s not happy. 

“You’re not going to need a regent,” he says bluntly. “I told you, I’d never have given you the potion if I thought--”

“Merlin.” Arthur wants to sound stern, but he’s quite touched in spite of himself. “This is what’s done before the birth of an heir. A regent is always appointed by the king if there’s no queen.” Though I am preparing for the worst, he adds silently. 

And while he’s thinking of it….

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, putting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I owe you more than I can possibly repay for this. If it weren’t for you--for magic--I wouldn’t have an heir at all. Don’t think for a moment that I’m not grateful for that.”

Merlin’s eyes soften and he smiles. He even looks a bit embarrassed.

“I only did what you asked,” he replies. 

“I know,” Arthur says warmly. “That’s why I want you to be my regent, should I...not be here after he’s born.”

Merlin looks stricken. “Arthur, no! I couldn’t, I’m not--”

Arthur holds up a stern finger. “You are my most trusted friend, and a powerful warlock. Your magic helped create the prince. There is no one, not even Leon, who has more of a right than you. Please, Merlin. At least consider it.”

He knows he could simply order him to accept the responsibility, but it seems only fair to let him decide on his own. He has to trust that Merlin will agree, eventually.

“I don’t know how to rule,” Merlin says after a moment. “And there are still people who might not want someone with magic as their king.”

“Regent,” Arthur corrects him. “As for knowing how to rule, there are plenty who will help you. The prince will have to learn, too. And the people...will come around.”

Merlin still doesn't agree, but Arthur pats him on the shoulder. "At least consider it, and tell me your decision before the prince arrives."

Merlin nods, reluctantly.


	3. Part 3

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, refusing to look up from the papers he’s reading. 

“I am fine. They’re only small pains, and I’ve just had a few this hour. You needn’t look as though the castle is on fire.”

Merlin doesn’t budge from his spot in front of Arthur’s desk.

“But do you think--I mean, it’s going to be any day now, so you might be--”

“I’m not,” Arthur says with finality, mostly to get Merlin to shut up (an impossible task, but he never stops hoping.) “And even if I was, it’s early yet. I’ve had worse than this when I ate bad meat during our last hunting trip.”

Merlin makes a face. “I remember. I was the one cleaning out your chamber pot.”

Arthur points a finger at him. “That’s enough. You may go. Now.”

Merlin hovers as only he can. “You’re sure? I can draw you a warm bath or get you some--”

“Merlin!” Gods, how can anyone be so irritating? He wants to be left alone. Completely alone and undisturbed so he can get some work done. It may be the only work he gets done for who knows how long. 

“Fine!” Merlin holds up his hands. “But I’ll be back.”

“Later,” Arthur instructs. "Don't hurry."

***

Later turns out to be only a few hours, and he hides the rag he’s been using to compulsively polish every nearby surface when he hears Merlin’s footsteps outside the door. 

Merlin pokes his head in, eyes bright and excited.

“Is this it?”

Arthur sighs. “I suppose. I can’t ignore the pains anymore, and I’ll take that bath now if you’d be so kind.”

“Of course! I’ll get Gaius to come and--”

“No.” Arthur says firmly. “Not yet. I’d rather do this on my own as long as I can. And don’t tell the knights until it’s…almost over. No sense in everyone else losing sleep around here.”

Merlin seems to understand. 

“All right. Do you need help with your clothes?”

Arthur looks down at the voluminous tunic he’s got on. “I think I can manage.”

He tugs the tunic off, sighing as it reveals his belly. “I’m going to burn these all, I swear. I don’t want a single reminder that I was ever this size. Merlin, you’re going to be tailoring my clothes for a month. In fact, you can start right now if you like.”

Merlin glances up from the pot of water heating over the fireplace. “You might want to keep a few of those. You won’t be getting much exercise with a newborn to care for, and your body will need time to heal.”

Arthur glares at him. “Are you saying I won’t be able to lose a few pounds?”

“A few, no,” Merlin says cheekily. “But that’s more than a few, isn’t it?”

The tunic lands on his head, just as Arthur intended. 

***

Arthur wills himself not to moan, but it’s becoming too much of a temptation. He’s already pretty sure he cracked a tooth or two during the last few pains.

“You can make noise if you like,” Merlin says quietly. “It can help.”

Arthur allows himself a moan, and it doesn’t exactly help, but it’s good to have an outlet. 

“Water.”

Merlin hands him a goblet, and he gulps down the contents. 

“I wish this was mead,” he says mournfully. 

“Not a good idea,” Merlin says. “Gaius thinks it’s best to have the, er, parent be fully alert.”

“Gaius has never done this,” Arthur growls, shifting in the water. “What does he know?”

“How far apart are the pains now?”

Arthur doesn’t want to think about it, but does a grudging calculation. “Less than a quarter hour?”

“That’s quick!” Merlin says with a smile. “You could be giving birth by morning.”

Arthur’s own smile is faint. Morning seems very far off right now.

***

“When is this going to end?”

Merlin jerks awake, jumping up to where Arthur’s leaning against the bedpost. It’s been hours and he’s sweated through all but one of his nightshirts. The pains have only gotten stronger, to the point where Arthur can’t talk through them.

And now something is trickling down his leg, which is odd because he’s had no urge to relieve himself. Maybe it’s just perspiration.

“Ah,” Merlin says, in a voice as if he’s noticed something interesting. “Your waters have broken.”

Arthur whips his head around. “What?!” 

Merlin points to a small puddle of water on the floor, which Arthur notices with great embarrassment is directly under him. 

Arthur can only gape from the puddle to Merlin. “Well--well, don’t just stand there, fix it!”

“Hm? Oh, no, Arthur, it’s supposed to happen,” Merlin says gently. “It means things are going the way they should.”

That sounds like utter nonsense, but there’s nothing to be done about it now. Arthur turns away and tries to put the incident out of his mind. 

“I know you’re embarrassed, but it’s all right,” Merlin says, dabbing at Arthur’s face with a discarded towel. Arthur bats it away with a grimace and digs his fingernails into the sturdy wood as another horrible pain builds.

“Make it stop,” he gasps. “Please--make--it--” There’s no talking after that, and by the time he’s got his breath back, he’s blinking back tears. He turns his head so Merlin won’t see, but of course he does.

“You’re doing brilliantly,” Merlin murmurs, rubbing his back. “I won’t leave you.”

Arthur swipes at his eyes and nods, once.

There’s a knock at the door, and Arthur does his level best to stand upright.

“One moment.” He gestures for Merlin to hand him a robe (he wants to maintain an illusion of dignity, after all) and answers the door himself. It’s Gaius, and all of Arthur’s knights are right behind him, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” he says for the benefit of them all. “Thank you for coming by. Gaius, come in, please.”

Just before he can close the door, Leon steps forward. 

“Is there anything we can do, sire?” he says in a low voice. Arthur feels close to tears yet again.

“Tell the people of Camelot to pray for their king...and the new prince,” he says. Leon smiles. 

***

Gaius isn’t at all perturbed by Arthur’s reluctance to let him see how things are “proceeding,” as he puts it. Arthur reminds himself that he’s known Gaius since he was a child, and there is probably no embarrassing ailment he’s had that Gaius hasn’t treated with the utmost discretion. 

But he would be eternally grateful if Gaius would produce a potion to get this child out now, and be done with it.

“I’m afraid it will still be a while, sire,” Gaius reports. Arthur’s head falls back against his sweaty pillows and he tries not to sob. Merlin sponges his face with a cool cloth and squeezes his shoulder.

“You can do it,” he says softly. “You’re strong enough to do this.”

Arthur waits until Gaius is turned away to look at Merlin.

“If anything happens, you look after him.”

Merlin glances at Gaius. “He can take care of himself, I think.”

Arthur grips the hand holding the cloth. “Merlin, I’m serious. You must look after my son if I die. He’ll need all of your help to be king.”

Merlin’s mouth tightens. “Arthur, don’t say that. You won’t die.”

“I might,” Arthur says. He feels like the possibility is increasing with every hour. “You know I might. So please, Merlin, swear you’ll look after him.”

Merlin’s mouth is trembling, but he finally nods. “I will. But you’re not going to die.”

Arthur smiles. 

***

It’s nearly dawn when Arthur feels an odd new sensation.

“Merlin,” he grunts, trying to get up from lying on his side. “I need the chamberpot.”

“Right, sire,” Merlin, who looks almost as haggard as Arthur, leans over to get it and then pauses.

“Merlin, now! It’s urgent!” 

Merlin and Gaius look back at him. “Do you mean you’re feeling pressure?” Merlin asks.

“Yes!” Arthur snaps. “And I’ll throw you in the dungeon for ten years if you make your king soil his own bed!”

“It would be perfectly normal for you to want to start pushing,” Gaius clarifies, handing him the chamberpot all the same. “If that’s what this is.”

As he soon finds out, they’re right. The chamberpot turns out to be obsolete, but the task at hand is even more unpleasant. 

“Now?” Arthur keeps asking after every considerable effort. Gaius shakes his head each time, and Arthur feels more and more certain that he has already died and is in hell, suffering what is surely an endless punishment.

It’s only when he feels as though he is actually tearing apart and is ready to say his goodbyes to the world that Gaius starts to look cheerful.

“Ah, good work, sire!” he crows from his position by Arthur’s ankles. “The head has appeared!”

“The head of what?” Arthur mumbles. He hasn’t slept all night, he’s hungry and exhausted and he doesn’t even care that Merlin laughs. 

“The baby’s head, Arthur,” Merlin says, sounding obscenely light-hearted. “It’ll be over very soon.”

“Good,” Arthur says, lying back. “Pull it out and be done with it.”

“Er, no, Arthur, you have to keep pushing,” Merlin tells him gently. “That’s the only way to do it.”

Arthur swats at him. “You’re banished.”

Merlin rubs his shoulders. “Very well, I’ll be off as soon as you’ve given birth. Now come on, you can do it.”

***

Arthur doesn’t remember much of the next few minutes. He remembers the pain, and the incredible feeling of relief when it finally ends, and the sound of a baby crying very loudly. He drifts off after that and wakes up hours later to see Merlin standing near the bed, holding the baby.

He smiles at Arthur. “You’re awake! Do you want to meet her?”

Arthur’s got his arms out before the pronoun even registers, and he stares down at the baby in shock. “Her? But--I thought it must be a boy. I was certain of it.”

“Well, she’s not,” Merlin says with a chuckle. “But she’s very healthy and Gaius says he’s never heard a child cry louder.”

Arthur can’t quite believe that it’s all over, that he won’t be waking up to a sore back every morning, or being pummeled from the inside all day long, and he can probably even stand to eat venison now. Even better, he no longer has to dread dying in childbirth. 

The new princess wails briefly, and he looks at her properly for the first time. She’s a bit cross-eyed, but her eyes are as blue as his own. Her head is strangely shaped, too. 

“Is this normal?” Arthur asks, and Merlin nods. 

“Yes. It won’t last.”

He looks at her again. Not much hair, but what there is looks dark, like his father’s. Her face looks a bit like his, especially the nose. Every feature is so small that he can’t tell who she resembles most.

“Do you have a name for her?” Merlin asks. “The crowds aren’t going anywhere until they know that much at least.”

Arthur glances at the windows, one of which is open, and hears what sounds like the whole of Albion outside talking at once.

“Igraine,” he says, looking back down at his daughter. “Her name is Igraine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come! Thank you for all the kudos!


	4. Part 4

It’s a rather surreal day for Arthur. Before he can properly wrap his mind around the fact that his daughter is here, and he’s officially a father, he has to let Gaius present her to the crowds. Then very shortly after, the knights practically break down the door to see her for themselves. None of them say a word about how she’s not the “prince” they were expecting, which Arthur appreciates, because he feels foolish every time he remembers calling her such a thing. 

Physically, he’s never felt more exhausted. He sleeps on and off all day, and Merlin brings him every food he can think of to help him “get his strength back.”

When he’s awake, he can’t stop staring at Igraine. She’s so calm and quiet, perfectly content to observe everything. He has a strong feeling that she knows who he is already, and he wishes she didn’t seem like such a strange, unfamiliar creature to him. 

Merlin sits on the edge of the bed nearest to him. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks.

Arthur shakes his head. He’s lying on his side, head propped up on his hand, gazing down at the baby. 

“She’s so different. From what I expected, I mean, and not just because she’s a girl. I don’t care about that. It’s just…” He’s not even sure how to explain. “Before, I knew everything about her. Or I thought I did. Now...I don’t anymore.” 

Merlin doesn’t laugh at him. He just nods, and lets Igraine grip one of his fingers. She likes to do that.

“You’ll get to know her,” he says. “You’ve got years to do that.”

Arthur smiles, letting Igraine grab onto his finger as well. They stay like that for a while, just watching her. 

Merlin clears his throat. “Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“I was afraid for you, for a while at least. I thought you might--”

“As did I,” Arthur interrupts, looking him full in the face, unashamed to admit it at last. “Longer than you know. But I’m not going to do it again. She’ll be my only heir.”

Merlin’s face lights up with relief. “Does that mean I don’t have to be regent?”

Arthur laughs. 

***  
The next few days are a tired blur of formal presentations and standing for far too long as courtiers pay homage to the new princess and shower both her and Arthur with compliments. At the end of every day, Arthur just wants to go back to his room and sleep, which is not easy considering how many events still have to be planned to honor Princess Igraine’s arrival.

Arthur groans as he looks over the dozens of messages from neighboring kingdoms offering their congratulations (and more than a few suggestions of potential princes for Igraine’s future betrothal.) All of these will have to be answered eventually, for the sake of etiquette. 

“Something wrong?” Merlin says, looking up from Igraine’s bath. He’s been practically her third nursemaid since the birth, and Arthur would make a joke about how the only thing Merlin can’t do is feed her, but he lacks the energy.

“No,” he replies. “They’re all very kind. Although it’s far too soon to be thinking about a betrothal to one of the princes. For heaven’s sake, she’s two weeks old!”

Merlin laughs and gently wraps Igraine in a blanket. “Gaius says you had a sweetheart when you were young.”

“I was five,” Arthur corrects him. “And she wasn’t my sweetheart, she was a little girl who gave me biscuits whenever I saw her. I think she was the cook’s daughter. It was hardly a betrothal.”

He holds out his arms for Igraine, and Merlin hands her over.

“There’s plenty of time for all that, isn’t there?” Arthur says to her, stroking her tiny hands. “Anyway, what boy could possibly be worthy of her?”

“I've no idea,” Merlin replies fondly.

***  
This is the very last banquet, Arthur thinks darkly. After this there will be no more events for a month. No, a year. With the exception of Yule, of course. By then he should feel more rested and ready to start entertaining the court again. 

It’s been wonderful to see how happy his people are about Igraine. He can’t thank them enough for their support. But he’s constantly tired and he misses Igraine when she’s with her nurses, and he’s still wearing his roomier clothes. He can’t imagine how unfit he must be, and wonders when he’ll ever have the energy to train with the knights again.

He leaves the hall as soon as he deems polite, fantasizing about taking a good long bath before bed when he hears Merlin’s voice coming from his room. He peers in to see Merlin rocking Igraine and relating a story to her.

“...and then I told the big angry dragon to go away and never come back to Camelot. And the dragon agreed, because he’s really quite a nice dragon and he’d been imprisoned for so long I should have known what he’d do once he was free. Anyway, the dragon flew off and your father woke up, and I had to tell him something so I said he killed the dragon. He believed me and was very happy, and then we went back home and--”

“Lived happily ever after?” Arthur finishes with a wry grin, stepping into the room. Merlin starts a bit, but smiles.

“It’s one of her favorite stories,” he says sheepishly. “She won’t settle down without one.”

“Merlin, you’re spoiling her,” Arthur chides, taking Igraine. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger already.” He smiles down at his daughter, who snuggles up to him.

“I’ll put her to bed. She likes to be rocked for a while before she goes to sleep.”

“Oh yes,” Merlin comments. “I’m the one who’s spoiling her.”

***  
It’s been weeks, and Arthur’s missed training more than he ever thought possible. 

He’s missed being able to wear his armor, swing his sword properly, and fight without worrying that he’s going to hurt himself or the baby. Now that she’s here, he’s able to focus on getting back into shape.

Of course, it has been a long time since he’s trained as hard as he used to. His body’s still embarrassingly soft and paunchy, which means he keeps his tunic on even when Gawain and Percival and the others take theirs off to enjoy the warm spring sun. 

He does his best, and his men are not easy on him, not that he’d want them to be. But he gets out of breath quickly, and his muscles ache so much the next day that he can barely sit up.

“You need to go more slowly,” Merlin says as he straps him into his armor the next afternoon. “You’re still recovering. No one will think less of you if--”

“Shut up,” Arthur growls. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Merlin shakes his head in a particularly irritating way, which prompts Arthur to send him to muck out the stables. At least that’ll keep him busy for a while.

After an hour of spear-throwing and sparring, Arthur has to sit down. His head’s spinning and his arms are protesting. Percival hands him a cup of water and looks concerned.

“Perhaps Merlin was right,” he says in a low voice. “You’re doing too much.”

Arthur glares at him. “I’m fine. I’m just out of practice.”

Gawain walks up in a way that seems far too casual. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to us, sire,” he says, with a glance at Percival. 

Arthur looks at them both. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You gave birth a month ago,” Percival says with a note of awe in his voice. “You did something none of us could ever do. And you survived it.”

“We thought you might not,” Gawain added. “We sat up all night long, praying for you to live. Leon made us all swear that whatever happened, we’d protect your son--well, daughter’s--claim to the throne from usurpers.”

Arthur is truly touched. “You did that?”

“And Gawain took bets on what you’d name the child,” Percival added with a grin. “He lost quite a bit of money, but so did we all.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder. “What we’re trying to say is, you’ve already proven yourself to us a thousand times over. If all you need is some time to get back in fighting form, we’re happy to give it to you.”

Arthur almost feels like he might cry. "Thank you."


	5. Part 5

As much as Arthur wishes it weren’t so, Igraine grows up before his eyes. Four years seem to fly by, and she goes from being a rather calm and cuddly baby to a highly energetic child determined to run at full tilt everywhere she goes. Her hair lightens to a warm gold, and her eyes are as blue as his but look more like Uther’s. Sometimes the look on her face before she tries something new is identical to Uther, which gives Arthur a slight chill every time.

“Igraine, no running!” is a phrase Arthur uses every day, which she willfully ignores. In fact, she runs faster, giggling as she out-distances her father and heads for sheltering arms of Merlin, Leon or Gawain. The knights all adore her and would fall on their swords before letting any harm come to her. 

“Perhaps you should think about training her to fight,” Merlin says at one point as she tears around the yards, wielding a small wooden sword and swatting at Gawain’s shins. He pretends to be wounded from one of her blows and she shrieks with laughter as he play-falls into the grass.

“Nonsense,” Arthur says brusquely, watching closely to make sure Igraine doesn’t hit Gawain too hard. “She’s too young. Hand me the spear.”

Merlin obliges, and Arthur hefts it a few times before throwing it into a nearby bale of hay. He’s finally back to fighting form and vows never to take it for granted again.

“Papa!” Igraine cries, running up to him and attaching herself to his leg. He smiles and runs a hand through her unruly hair.

“Try?” Igraine says, pointing at the spear. She takes a step towards it and Arthur quickly sweeps her up in his arms.

“No, no, darling,” he says. “That’s too big and heavy for you. Where’s your sword?”

Igraine points again, but this time at the row of gleaming broadswords the knights use. Merlin laughs. 

“I think she’s tired of toys already,” he jokes. Arthur glares at him. The thought of Igraine coming anywhere near a real weapon makes him shudder.

“Your wooden sword, Igraine,” he says again, even though she’s squirming and reaching for the real ones. “Those aren’t for you.”

Igraine whines loudly, and Arthur sets her down, keeping a firm hand on her shoulder. Gawain walks over with her wooden sword. She takes it grudgingly.

Gawain chucks her under the chin. “Princesses don’t use swords, sweetheart. Wouldn’t you rather I picked you some flowers?”

“No!” Igraine shouts, and despite her bad manners Arthur nearly laughs. She’s like Morgana, he thinks with amusement. Then he pauses, a dreadful thought coming to mind.

“Merlin,” he says abruptly. “I need to speak to you. Igraine, apologize to Gawain for shouting at him. A princess doesn’t shout at her knights.”

Igraine pouts, hugging her toy sword, and mumbles “Sorry.” 

“Quite all right, my lady,” Gawain says with a bow. Arthur pulls Merlin aside until they’re out of earshot.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says in a low voice. “Is it possible Igraine could...could have magic?”

Merlin looks surprised. “I’ve never seen her do anything magical. Have you?”

“No. But Morgana only had dreams for years, and it wasn’t until she was grown that we knew she had powers. And look what happened to her.”

Merlin looks at him with deep understanding.

“Morgana was different. She was taught to be afraid of magic, and she hated your father for making her feel that way. Anyway, the laws are different now, thanks to you. Even if Igraine does have magic, you’ll never treat her the way Uther did.”

Arthur looks back at Igraine, who has abandoned her sword to try and climb on top of the hay bale that holds his spear. Gawain is standing close by, cheering her on.

“I never want her to be afraid. She’s fearless now, but she’s only a child. How can we explain what magic means if she does have it?”

“The best we can,” Merlin replies softly. “But we won’t let her turn out like Morgana.”

***  
Something’s changed, and he’s not sure if he wants to acknowledge it.

His heart aches when he sees Merlin teaching eight-year-old Igraine history, or telling her stories of his and Arthur’s adventures. His eyes keep drifting to the empty throne next to him and wondering if it will ever hold anyone again.

He needs to marry, he tells himself. He’s lonely. And Igraine needs a mother. She has doting nurses and maids, but none of them are a substitute for the wisdom and guidance a mother can give a daughter.

“Aren’t you her mother?” Merlin asks once, and Arthur grits his teeth. 

“Merlin, what have I said about calling me that?”

“Not to under any circumstances,” Merlin recites. “Sorry.”

Arthur mulls that over for a while. “I carried her and gave birth to her, so in a way I’m both her parents,” he decides finally. “But I’m not a woman, and she needs a woman to confide in and teach her things I never could. Besides, every year plenty of eligible noble ladies visit Camelot. It would be easy enough to find a...wife.”

None of them will be like Guinevere, he thinks before he can stop himself. She would have been a wonderful mother to Igraine, but she chose Lancelot. That was years ago, they’re probably wed and have children of their own by now. 

***

Finding a suitable stepmother (and wife) turns out to be a harder task than he anticipated.

Some women fawn on him and give him undivided attention, but they aren’t as comfortable around Igraine as he would like. She’s never been a quiet, docile girl, and they spend most of their time with her coaxing her to accept dolls or clothes as gifts. Igraine has learned to say “Thank you,” but she never pays attention to the gifts afterwards. 

Other women try to be Igraine’s tutors first and foremost, thinking this will impress Arthur. But Igraine would rather ride her horse and practice with her first real sword (which Arthur finally gave her on her seventh birthday) than be taught etiquette. When they raise their voices at her, she shouts back, and Arthur is forced to intervene before feelings (and alliances) are hurt.

“Igraine,” he says to her one night at dinner after yet another prospective wife has departed without a betrothal. “Don’t you want a mother?”

Igraine toys with her fork. “Not really.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Why not? Lots of girls have mothers.”

“But I have you, and Merlin, and my ladies-in-waiting, and Uncle Gawain and Leon and the rest. Why do I need a mother at all?”

She has a point, Arthur acknowledges. Igraine doesn’t lack for family or friends.

“Yes, but you’re a princess and I have no queen,” Arthur explains. “If I had a wife, she could teach you all the things a future queen needs to know.”

Igraine laughs. “Being a king can’t be that different from being queen, surely?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Arthur says a bit tersely. “I was taught swordplay and battle strategy, and Morgana was taught how to dance and dress well enough to turn the heads of all the noblemen of Camelot.”

Igraine looks interested. “Morgana, my aunt? Tell me about her!”

Oh, no. He never meant to bring her up, and stalls. “Oh….there’s nothing much to tell. She left Camelot a long time ago.”

“But she was like a princess, wasn’t she?” Igraine persists. “Perhaps if I asked her to visit us, she could teach me--”

“No!” Arthur interrupts, slamming his fist down on the table. “She is no longer welcome at Camelot, Igraine. I forbid it.”

Her eyes fill up with so much shock and hurt that he regrets his words instantly. He sounded just like Uther. 

“Igraine, I’m sorry--” he starts, but she pushes her chair away from the table and flees the room without hearing his apology.

He finishes his dinner in silence, and after an hour he knocks on her door. She opens it with head high and eyes red.

“I’m sorry for shouting,” Arthur says sincerely. “That was unnecessary.”

Igraine nods. “I only wanted to know more about Aunt Morgana. Was she really as terrible as people say?”

Arthur wishes he’d prepared better for this conversation, because he doesn’t know how honest to be with his daughter about her ill-fated aunt.

He steps into the room and sits down in a chair near the fireplace. Igraine sits in the one across from him, looking eager. 

“Morgana...was a kind and caring girl like yourself,” he begins. “She was fierce and proud and not afraid of anyone. You have much in common with her.”

Igraine smiles. 

“But she had certain abilities that our father didn’t care for,” Arthur goes on. “She could see the future in her dreams, for one. And at the time, Father didn’t allow anyone with abilities like hers--”

“You mean magic?” Igraine interrupts, eyes widening. “Merlin told me.”

Of course he did.

“Yes, magic,” Arthur concedes. “Father hated magic. So Morgana kept it a secret from everyone, and she was very afraid and very angry that she had to do so. She and Father fought, and she ended up trying to kill him and everyone in the castle.”

Igraine stares, rapt. 

“Merlin...stopped her.” He’s not about to tell her that her beloved almost-uncle poisoned Morgana. “But then her sister, a witch, took her away from Camelot for a long time. No one knows what happened, but when Morgana came back, she hated us all and wanted to destroy Camelot. She used her magic for evil, and none of us could persuade her to stop. When she found out that my father was also hers, she decided to usurp the throne for herself.”

He tells her the entire tale, only leaving out the bits that are too violent for her to hear, and by the time he’s done, she’s gazing into the fire very somberly.

“So she was evil,” she says at last. 

Arthur smiles sadly. “Morgana was a good person corrupted by hate. If she wasn’t, perhaps she would have been a wise queen one day. People aren’t simply good or evil, I’m afraid.”

Igraine pulls her legs up onto her chair. “Will I be like her, do you think?”

Arthur leans forward. “If you had magic, I would love you just as much as I do now. You’d have no reason to hate me the way Morgana hated Father.”

“Because you’re not him,” Igraine says, brow knitted. 

“That’s right.”

“And I’m not Morgana,” Igraine finishes, her expression clearing. “Even if I had magic, I wouldn’t be her.”

Arthur’s heart swells. “That’s exactly right, sweetheart.”


	6. Part 6

Shortly before Igraine’s fifteenth anniversary celebration, Arthur finds himself staring at her cradle, which he keeps in a special trunk. Was she really so small that she could fit into it? She’s nearly as tall as he is now. 

He unfolds one of her baby blankets and smiles, thinking of how Merlin used to wrap her in them so carefully. He still remembers this day so long ago, when he was trying to ignore the start of labor and letting no one besides Merlin and Gaius see how frightened he was. 

“Would you do it again?” Merlin’s voice pipes up behind him, and he turns around.

“Absolutely not,” he declares. “Once is quite enough, even when people told me I should marry again in the hopes of getting a son. As if I’d made some kind of mistake by having a daughter!”

“Well, you did think she was a boy up until she was born,” Merlin chuckles. “Nothing seemed to convince you that you weren’t having a prince instead of a princess.”

Arthur shakes his head at his younger self’s folly.

“But you’re not sorry you don’t have a son, or that you didn’t marry.”

Arthur stares out the window to the courtyard, where people are unpacking decorations for tonight’s festivities.

“I could have asked any woman for her hand in marriage, and she might have accepted,” he says out loud. “But I didn’t. Even the ones who Igraine liked weren’t quite what I was looking for. And I don’t need a son. I have her, and she’ll make a wonderful queen of Albion someday.”

“And who knows?” Merlin adds, coming to stand next to him. “In a few years, she might be accepting some prince’s suit.” He glances at Arthur. “Do you think there are any princes worthy of her now?”

“I never will,” Arthur says with a grin. “But she’s a match for any of them, if they wish to try.”

***

“I think I’ve finally realized why I never found a wife,” Arthur muses after Igraine’s coronation ceremony five years later. She’s still dancing the night away in the Great Hall, but Arthur’s excused himself for the evening, claiming he’s far too old to stay up late anymore.

“Why is that?” Merlin asks, turning down his bed covers. Arthur sits on the edge of the bed and beckons him over.

“Because, in a way...she’s ours.” 

Merlin’s eyes, no less blue than they were twenty years ago, widen. “But she’s not mine.”

“You made the potion,” Arthur says fondly. “You were by my side from the moment I drank it until the moment she was born. You made sure I didn’t do anything foolish--”

“That was the hardest part,” Merlin quips, and Arthur laughs.

“Still, don’t try to deny it, I know you love her like she was your daughter.”

Merlin smiles. “Of course I do.”

“And even though she’s not,” Arthur says, looking into his eyes, “She might as well be. Because we did make her together.”

Merlin is actually blushing. “Arthur…”

Arthur reaches out and cups the side of Merlin’s face. “Yes?”

Merlin’s lips part. “I...sometimes wish we had. Made her together, I mean. That way.”

He sounds as awkward as he did when they were barely older than Igraine, and Arthur loves him for it.

“Really?” he murmurs, leaning in a bit closer, not even sure what he wants to happen next. 

Merlin doesn’t answer, only nods, and Arthur closes the distance between them with a kiss. For a moment, he forgets everything else exists. All that matters is Merlin’s mouth moving against his own. 

I should have done this years ago, he thinks with some amusement. After a moment they break apart, and neither can hide their smiles.

“If you like,” Arthur says, resting his forehead against Merlin’s, “We can try for a son.” 

Merlin blinks. “You mean, with another potion?”

“Oh, lord, no,” Arthur amends hastily. “I mean, just...try.”

Merlin smiles, twining his fingers through Arthur’s. “I would like that.”


	7. Epilogue

2015

 

Arthur wakes up from his nap, frowning as he tries to recall the dream he’s certain he was having just a few minutes ago. But as usual, it’s gone almost as soon as he’s opened his eyes. 

 

His phone has a new text message, which he opens. It’s from Merlin.

 

_ Dinner tonight--pizza, Chinese or whatever the baby wants? Up to you.  _

 

Arthur smiles. Merlin’s “ask no questions” approach to his cravings is endearing, even though he has yet to crave anything truly out of the ordinary.

 

He texts back,  _ Chinese sounds wonderful. Nothing spicy, though, don’t want to be up half the night w/ heartburn again. _

 

Merlin responds in seconds.  _ Wasn’t just the heartburn that made me sleep on the sofa that night.  _

 

Arthur laughs and rolls his eyes, turning off the screen and maneuvering up to use the toilet. 

 

***

 

By the time Merlin comes home with bags of take-away in hand, Arthur’s in a worse mood and wishes he’d asked for food with more fiber, seeing as he’s spent the last two hours in the toilet with little to show for it.

 

Merlin glances at him. “Still constipated?”

 

Arthur glares, snatching the nearest container of food and leaning back as far as he can in his chair. “I don’t want to talk about it while I’m eating, Merlin.”

 

His husband shrugs, snapping apart one of the sets of chopsticks. “Fine. But we have more of that tea, if you need it.”

 

Arthur grunts in recognition and shoves a mouthful of sesame noodles into his mouth. As if on cue, the baby starts squirming, which is not the most pleasant thing to focus on when he’s trying to eat. 

 

“Stop that,” he says, massaging the spot that gets kicked the most, right above his third left rib. “It’s dinnertime. Mind your manners.”

 

Merlin’s face lights up and he reaches over to feel Arthur’s bump.

 

“He likes the food!” he says, then frowns. “Or does this mean he doesn’t?”

 

“Doesn’t matter, it’s what _ I  _ want,” Arthur retorts. “And if he doesn’t like it, he’ll probably make me sick it all back up again, won’t you, you little--”

 

“Arthur! It’s not his fault.”

 

Arthur sighs, setting the noodles aside. “I know. It’s just that I can’t be comfortable for more than five minutes anymore. I can’t drink, none of my favorite clothes fit, and I love spicy food but I can’t eat it without it keeping me up all night. I’m  _ tired _ of all this and I still have eight weeks to go.”

 

“Seven,” Merlin says helpfully. “If that’s any consolation.”

 

Arthur sighs again, one hand resting on his bump as the baby stops protesting his choice of food and quiets down. That’s more like it.

 

Something flickers in his mind, like a memory, and he blinks. 

 

“Have we...done this before?” he asks, and Merlin pauses mid-bite. 

 

“Had Chinese? Dozens of times.”

 

“No, not that. Just...I don’t know. Something about this seems familiar.” He dismisses it, figuring it was part of the dream he had earlier. Just a dream. 

 

***

_ “Shhh,” Arthur pleads, rocking Igraine as she wails. She’s burning up with fever and he’s terrified, hoping to God that Merlin comes back soon with the tonic he swears will heal her by morning. Arthur’s never felt more helpless. She’s such a strong, healthy child. Things like this always seem to catch him off-guard. _

 

_ “I know you don’t feel well,” he says, dabbing her forehead with a dampened cloth. “I know it hurts. But Merlin will be back soon, and he’ll make you feel so much better. I swear.” _

 

Arthur jerks awake, this time remembering most of the dream. It’s amazing how clear it was, as if he’d lived it before. Actually  _ lived it. _

 

He glances down at his belly. They know they’re having a boy, they found out weeks ago. So why on earth did he dream about a baby girl?

 

Merlin turns over and looks at him blearily. “Are you okay?” 

 

Arthur nods, smoothing his shirt over his bump. “I had a dream. About the baby...I think.”

 

Merlin smiles. “A good dream?”

 

Arthur hesitates before answering. “I...dreamt that he had a fever. Oh, and that he was a girl.”

 

Merlin chuckles. “Maybe we should ask for another scan just to be sure.”

 

“It’s not that. It was...it was as if I  _ did _ have a daughter once, a long time ago.” He snorts. “It’s ridiculous.” He settles back against the pillows, closing his eyes. 

 

“Anyway, you were going to cure her with a potion or something,” he mumbles, letting fatigue set in once again. “I think you were maybe a healer.”

 

Merlin snuggles closer. “Was I? And what were you?”

 

Arthur smirks. “The king, of course.” All his dreams seem to involve him in a state of high authority. He’s gotten used to it. “And we’d named her Igraine.”

 

Just as his eyes close, he hears Merlin draw in a breath. He cracks one eye open to see him sitting up, completely alert and staring at Arthur.

 

“What?”

 

“Igraine. Like your mother the queen. That’s who you named her after.”

 

Now Arthur’s just as alert. “How in the bloody hell did you know that?”

 

Merlin presses his lips together as if trying to decide what to say next. “Arthur...you’re not the only one who’s been having those dreams.”

 

***

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting on the sofa with cups of tea in hand, trying to wrap their minds (or rather, Arthur’s trying to wrap his mind around it, Merlin seems to have accepted the whole bizarre situation) around these psychic dreams. 

 

“They’re not psychic,” Merlin corrects him. “More like...flashes of past lives. I’ve heard of this happening before. Some people remember their past lives through dreams, like us.”

 

“Or we’re going mad,” Arthur groans. “I might be rich, but my parents weren’t royalty. And you don’t have any magical powers. At least, none you’ve ever told me about.”

 

Merlin laughs. “If I did, I’d have told you before we got married.” He sips at his tea. “Anyway, of course we’re not a king and a wizard  _ now. _ That all happened a long, long time ago.”

 

“When I was king of Britain-- the actual King Arthur--and you were Merlin the sorcerer.” It doesn’t sound any less ridiculous when he says it out loud. He shakes his head. 

 

“I still don’t believe it. Maybe we’re just having the same anxiety over becoming parents, and that’s why we’re dreaming the same dreams.”

 

Merlin frowns. “That might be part of it...part of  _ why  _ we’re remembering all that now.”

 

Arthur clasps his hands together. “But Arthur-- _ King  _ Arthur--never had any children. He certainly never got  _ pregnant.” _

 

“That we know of,” Merlin replies, and Arthur laughs in spite of himself. 

 

“Come off it, you don’t seriously believe that that might have happened?”

 

Merlin shrugs, staring pensively at some vague point in the distance. “People change stories all the time. Maybe Arthur and Guinevere being childless was easier to believe than...well, Arthur having his own child without a woman. If Guinevere and Lancelot ran off together and there was no war to bring her back, maybe Arthur resorted to desperate measures and asked Merlin for help. For magic to produce an heir.”

 

Any impulse to laugh dies when Arthur sees how earnest Merlin is about this. He really believes it. More than that...he seems to think it’s what happened, all those centuries ago.

 

He thinks about it, finally allowing himself to consider the possibility that it’s more than pre-parental nerves or coincidence or madness. Maybe this has all happened before, in some way. It makes him shiver.

 

“What do you think happened to Igraine?” he finds himself asking out loud. Remembering the fear of trying to comfort a sick baby makes him wrap a protective arm over his bump.

 

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t know. Maybe she died young. Or,” he adds, seeing the expression on Arthur’s face, “maybe she was simply forgotten by history. Maybe there was no way to explain her presence, so no one tried. Or no one believed it.”

 

That, at least, makes a little more sense. 

 

“What do we do?” Arthur asks after a long moment of silence. “Now that we know, or think we know, who we used to be? Do we….tell anyone?”

 

Merlin smiles. “Who would we tell?”

 

Arthur shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know.”

 

“Not Morgana.”

 

“ _ Definitely _ not Morgana.”

 

***

If he  _ did _ give birth once before in a past life, he wishes he could remember it. It might have made the pain and stress of his son’s birth a little easier. 

 

Finally, though, baby Gwaine is here. He’s as beautiful and perfect as can be, and Arthur is never having  _ any _ more children. One per lifetime is quite enough.

 

“Of course we don’t have to have more,” Merlin says, holding Gwaine. He’s so besotted with him that Arthur could probably ask for a divorce and he’d agree. 

 

“I’m glad you think so,” Arthur says. “Let me take him.”

 

Merlin hands him over, and Arthur cradles him, looking into his deep blue eyes--like Merlin’s, though they may change--and  _ remembers. _

 

_ Igraine’s dark hair, her tiny hands, the way she fusses unless someone recites a story to her before she goes to sleep, how her eyes seem to see everything all at once, and how Arthur secretly wishes she looked a bit like Merlin, because all of this is thanks to him. And yet he can never repay him. _

 

“Are you all right?”

 

Arthur blinks and looks up at Merlin, who’s put a hand on his shoulder.

 

_ We could try for a son.  _

 

Oh, dear God. 

 

“I….” Arthur doesn’t know how to explain what he’s thinking, so instead he pulls Merlin down for a kiss. When they break apart, Arthur smiles at him.

 

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and bookmarked this story! Always fun to give Arthur and Merlin a well-deserved happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I wrote this as one very long document, so I'm trying to post it in smaller parts. Please let me know what you think!


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